


Ardent Daughter

by Leonia42



Series: A Violet in a Snowstorm [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Drama, F/M, Family, Heavensward, Holy See of Ishgard, Mystery, Romance, Stormblood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonia42/pseuds/Leonia42
Summary: Venice is making a genuine effort to feel comfortable in her role as a lady of House Fortemps but there are simply too many cultural hurdles to overcome. While most outtings with her father and brothers are quite pleasant, some remain less than ordinary. It is on a chance encounter with Artoirel that she stumbles across a holdout for a band of scum and villainy, a new mystery to solve or perhaps a continued thread from other strange happenings. Therein she is also confronted by a very uncomfortable question: can her most hated nemesis return to the land of the living and, if so, what exuberant price will her beloved have to pay to put it down again?[Takes place sometime between 4.1 and 4.2, probably contains MSQ spoilers]





	Ardent Daughter

The entirety of the Fortemps family was gathered together all in one place, enjoying a delightful day out. As they walked around the garrison grounds, it felt like Haurchefant’s spirit was also with them. They wore their stylish outdoors attire, high boots which made being amongst the melting snow and crumbling sludge more bearable without diminishing the significance of their status.

For Venice it was a surreal experience, to be treated openly as an upstanding lady, to have her older brother, Count de Fortemps, hovering behind her shoulder and the garrison’s commander, her younger brother, leading them about. Family. _Her_ family. Though not willingly chosen by her, she had grown to regard Haurchefant’s flesh and blood as her own. She looked up to the collecting clouds above and blew him a kiss.

The remnants of the last saint’s festival were being torn down and being replaced by a diverse array of outlandish colours and patterns, not the usual subtle Isghardian pallet of thought-provoking blues and greys. A series of similar events had coincided on the calendar that particular cycle, an almost endless period of leisure and celebration. The garrison at Camp Dragonhead was regularly utilised as a venue for large crowds, that year it also played host to the bemused Grand Companies which the knights had shared the field, politely inviting them to partake in feasting rather than bloodletting.

The church was not overly excited about the venture, allowing heretics to participate in their sacred holidays, occasions strictly meant to honour Ishgard’s sacrificial heroes. Not all of those heroes had been proven to work for the benefit of the people or the faith which they coveted so fervently, the truths of the war had uncovered centuries of unsavoury lies and far-reaching coverups. But rather than give into the confusion of who did what and for what reason, the people needed to let go of their inhibitions and count the blessings they did share.

They had been trying to organise as a family for several weeks, their busy schedules rarely affording them the luxury. Emmanellain was the most excited, not only did he get to show off his personal progress at maintaining the high standards for the House Fortemps knights, he was making strides in working with foreign forces to keep the border open to the flow of newcomers, whether they came for trade, faith, tourism, or any other reason. The festival added an extra level of joy to their assembly, but occasionally the four of them split up whilst browsing the stalls.

A full ten summers had passed since Venice had seen her original parents. As she watched the other families going about their routines, her mind oscillated. Either she was interested in learning about the culture of her adopted home, or she was wandering back to the distant past, where the climate was more temperate and agreeable.

\---

A pair of Garleans followed the branching streams towards its source in the mountains, attempting to not be distracted by the plentiful wildlife which they passed along their journey. The trek was new to them, the section of the forest thick with briars and other obstacles that a girl of seven summers struggled to clamour through. The girl, Venezia bas Mercius, did all she could to keep a steady pace, not stopping to assess the holes left in her pants or the accumulating patch of thorns lodged against her long, white tunic.

Feydrian cen Mercius, a carpenter by trade as far as she was aware, picked up and lifted his daughter across the patches of scratchy underbrush to speed along their progress. Her broad shoulder, lanky everywhere else, father was a pureblood with the same shade of violet hair tied into a short, tight braid along his scalp, as hers had been earlier that morning before getting caught on low hanging branches in her path.

Her bruise-covered failures and silent pride bullied her to resist asking for his help, she wasn’t used to getting it back home anyway. Stubbornness did not deter him from looking out for his kin. Quite the contrary, he encouraged her with reserved calm and stoic patience, a half-wicked smile of being out for the day with the joy of his life carried across his narrow features, blue eyes boasting of the bounty they would bring home.

Finally, they reached their shallow fishing hole, their beech rods ready to dip into waters jumping with juvenile trout on the way to begin the rest of their short lives down river. Bells passed by, frustrations ensued. While she had given it her all, there were no fish in the basket she could truly lay claim to. Venezia sat on a rock, her head in her hands, hiding her disappointments with a quivering lip, pretending to dry out her clothes in the dwindling sunlight. Clouds were moving in, normal ones that time and not the frightening lightning shows they could see in the far distance from the safety of their veranda most days.

One bungled attempt after another, nobody was ever going to take her seriously. But her father had hatched a triumphant plan unbeknownst to his fragile daughter. Their day out was meant to be a treat, to give Venezia a break from the other children which made fun of her plain forehead, just as her mother had done albeit in hushed tones to her socialite friends. She had overhead her parents fighting about it once, when she was supposed to be in bed.

Feydrian was coaxing Anillia down by pointing out their fortunes could change if they worked hard on attending to the legatus’ love for hunting trophies and local produce. They hadn’t chosen to have an impure child but that didn’t mean their options were entirely restricted, whatever that was supposed to mean. Her mother relented, deciding that as long as they raised her well, a higher tier was not out of reach. They would be back in the bustling metropolis of Garlemald in no time, free to embrace their respective dreams without worries over their financial security.

Venezia had never been to the royal capitol though her father often talked about it, showing holographic images from a tomestone reader he kept in a locked safe under their bed. The device was one of his most treasured possessions, a holdover from a better time in his life before playing cards with sore losers had robbed him of their family fortune. Despite a lack of close friends, she was quite happy in their small village by the river, rarely seeing the armed legions passing through on their training missions. The soldiers scared her senseless with their glinting weapons and intimidating face masks. Why would she want to be surrounded by faceless men in a city akin to a gilded cage?

“Welcome home, my dear Fey,” her mother threw her arms around her husband, peppering his cheeks with kisses before kneeling down to address her dishevelled daughter, “Oh, Vinny, what have you done to your hair? Nevermind, the pot is boiling now, please tell me we have something to put in it.”

“We do,” Feydrian handed over his prizes, Venezia hid behind him hoping her mother wouldn’t prod for more information. “The big one there was caught by our budding angler of a daughter, I was deeply impressed with how she stood her ground against the current. It pulled every which way but she braced against a rock and gave it what for. A splendid site, if only you could have seen the grin of victory on her rapturous face. The legatus will be most pleased indeed, why I think we’ll go down every day when my carvings are done.”

“Is that so?” Anillia’s dark eyes were huge with excitement.

“I..” Venezia looked to her father for support, he merely waved her on. All she had to do was say “yes” and that would have been that. She kicked at the floor with her toe, the moral dilemma stealing morsels from the palm of her mother’s outstretched gullibility, “I did not catch any fish today, not least that one.”

“Feydrian,” Anillia’s disappointment was palpable, Venezia felt her heart stall, “You shouldn’t lie in front of her. What sort of habits will she learn?”

“She’s had a rough couple of weeks, I thought she could do with a win,” he said flatly.

“You can’t keep propping her up, she has to learn on her own,” she continued to berate him. “Go set the table, love. We’ll be right along.”

She did as she was told, as she always did, lamenting her lot in life all the while. She didn’t want to lie to get what she wanted. She didn’t want to be a soldier, a carpenter, an angler or an embroideress like her mother. One day she’d run away and they’d be rid of their useless, pathetic excuse for a daughter, the village would have to find someone else to harass. She would be free of their stupid rules and the rigid chores, lucky to be a servant in a moderately wealthy home with her current trajectory. She had no one, nothing to hold onto.

Once the task was done, she could hear yelling between her parents, the words “marriage” and “dowry” repeated as they pivoted around their desires for her future like a pair of fencers angling for the precise point that would ensure the end of the duel. Dinner itself was blissfully silent, afterwards Venezia threw herself to her bed and prayed for sleep to take her somewhere else.

A tap on the door, Feydrian was alone with something tucked under his arm. “Ven, my love?”

“I was asleep,” she attempted, the words felt hot and heavy on her tongue, like the pictures of lava from one of her schoolbooks. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re a good girl, don’t let Ani convince you otherwise,” he said softly, coming over to sit next to her. “I’m sorry, I’ve put us in this situation. She misses her family, that’s all. She shouldn’t take it on you.

I have something here. Had some orders come in for a touring troupe, instruments instead of cabinets for once. I jumped at the chance to make them though I knew not what I was doing, maybe you can tease some music out of this pair of drums?”

The handheld wooden objects were made from the same beech as the pair of fishing rods he had also made them, a patch of mammoth leather was bound over top, flat and pliable. Bongo drums, great for travelling, easy to store. She drummed her knuckles against one, her palm on the other, the immediate reverberations thrilling her imagination.

“Keep them, may they bring you good luck and teach you to hone in on the rhythms around us. Between you and I, this village is much more peaceful than the city. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time here.”

“Thank you, Father. I know you have my best interests at heart, this gift proves it. But please don’t lie for me again.”

“I promise,” he kissed her forehead and tucked her in, turning off the electrical lamp on her bedside, “Good night, Ven.”

\---

Venice stood in the shadow of the archway just under the Aetheryte, watching a lowborn couple explain to their children that they had to share a raspberry cream tart between them. She thought about sneakily buying another to give to the teary-eyed girl but it wasn’t her business. A handout wouldn’t have solved their bigger problems. Later, she saw one of the Dzemael masons approach the father, the two men shook hands, then the father explained to the mother that he had found temporary work at rebuilding one of the vigils. The brother let his sister eat the rest of the tart and they went on their merry way, enjoying the rest of the stalls with abundant glee.

Her heart soared to greater heights when she caught sight of a familiar long, blue cloak dislodging itself from an anxious crowd comprised of curious revellers. Amongst the throng were earnest newspaper reporters from the other city-states, all attempting to engage the prideful lord commander for an opinion. Aymeric was leading his chocobo back to the stables, having been out to assess the grounds for the next round of festivities. His expression was not altogether different from the lowborn father, beaming as bright as a full moon against fresh powdered snow.

“He looks as content as a proud prince overseeing the madness of organising one’s own wedding ceremony,” Lord Edmont said with a soft laugh.

“I haven’t seen him so openly optimistic since we won the Grand Melee,” Emmanellain added.

Artoirel kept his opinions to himself, looking over at Venice, “Well, don’t let us keep you.”

When she reached him, he picked her up off the ground and spun her around as light as a feather, “Violet, my love. My shield. What a wonderful day this has turned out to be.”

The crowd continued to swell around them, she wondered if he wanted to be seen close to a Garlean given the recent paranoia. The most vocal rumourmongers were suggesting the Empire was clandestinely responsible for insidiously pulling his strings against the Inquisition. There was certainly something of his she’d like to be pulling on.

He drew her in close, a steady hand at the small of her back, fingers placed just so, a silent declaration of his own intentions. Summer-filled eyes fixated on her alone, it felt as if everyone was holding their breath. Either that, or the rest of the world had dropped away leaving them to soak in each others’ radiance.

“When you’re done with this lot, perhaps you would be free to have your sword unsheathed,  so it might be thoroughly wetted and polished by a detailed hand,” she whispered coyly.

“It is best to grind the blade tersely against a smooth whetstone first, to rid it of any impurities whilst sharpening it for later use. That way, one has more time to see to another’s astute handiwork and might know the depths the cloth will have to resort to perform a satisfactory cleansing,” he responded in a low voice, slowly dragging the flats of his fingers up her spine as she whined against his cuirass, hoping none save him could hear.

She couldn’t help herself, she reached to kiss his neck just above the frilly collar, pressing in between her lips with the tip of her curled tongue, it was his turn to try and hide an unsolicited grunt for more. Her arms hung over his shoulders, someone called his name and he sighed with resignation.

“No rest for the righteous,” he said, setting her back down on her feet again. “You will be at the dinner later tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.

He enveloped her once more, kissing her passionately against the lips, his pull unrelenting despite the need for his attention elsewhere. They had kissed many times before then but that particular moment was indulgent. He didn’t often resort to tongue right away, usually working up to it after a dexterous dance of sugared drops and whimsical dips. But there with the breathless onlookers to see, he proceeded to entreat her as a librarian tends to their favourite, archaic volume. Taking the lead, bending her to his will, turning the pages over and over, seeking that hidden message that would pierce his mind. She allowed him to browse at his own pace, innovating and reinvigorating the thirst for knowledge whenever the quill seemed to bore of a particular line, offering a new avenue of enquiry, giving ink back unto an emptied well.

“You better not ignore your admirers for too long, Blue, or they will see to their own conclusions,” she said, pinching one ear before stepping reluctantly away. Seriousness forced its way ahead of her flaring desires, “I’m glad to see that you are not so overwhelmed at present.”

“Things are under control for now. Go, enjoy your day out with your kin, Violet,” he bowed, then turned on his heel to answer a volley of questions.

“She has him strung around her little finger,” Emmanellain said with his mouth agape.

“Who is strung around who’s finger?” she prodded at him, rejoining their walk as if the diversion was nothing of note.

“Now that you put it that way, it’s hard to tell,” he admitted.

Artoirel and Lord Edmont were enthralled by their own private conversation until Artoirel went to shake hands with someone who was trying overly hard to look important. Emmanellain and Venice were left on the wayside. Fresh snowflakes began to fall, ominously heralding a change in conditions.

“Who’s that?” Venice asked, only half-interested.

“Ah, I think you are acquainted with that man’s son, a scrawny midlander with fire in his belly if I recall. He’s the current head of festivities, a post likely chosen to placate the man’s ire over his son’s misfortunes at the hands of encountering your fists, as I am told secondhand. A tale I am likely to believe, you’re definitely one of us.”

“It is one thing to have a difference in opinion but the lad was advocating violence to get what he wanted. I have no sympathy,” Venice shrugged her shoulders, glad for her murky recollection of specific details from the night.

Emmanellain laughed shakily, hesitantly as if he was afraid to offend her, “I’m not criticising you, old girl. Anyway, I daresay the appointment was done more than as a favour. The man in question is actually good at his job though he does strut about like a narcissistic peacock. Sure, he complains at great length about all the unnecessary changes, but who doesn’t have some axe to grind around here,” he shook his head, perplexed and serious for a second.

“At the end of the day, he gets what he wants and Ser Aymeric gets what he wants out of the arrangement, as he so often does. And on that subject, I must encourage caution.”

Venice paused, pulling her cloak tight around as the wind picked up, they had meandered closer to one of the open gates away from the braziers. She looked back into the crowd, hoping to catch another sneaky glimpse of her beloved but he was nowhere to be seen. Only the sound of his name brought her back to the discussion.

“You might wish to refrain from mentioning the, uh, personal subject of your relations around Father,” her brother began, biting his lip in thought.

“There are no relations to speak of,” she said honestly, Emmanellain sighed with relief.

“That may be, and it is not for me to know. However, there’s a side to being highborn you have not yet, blissfully, been made privy to. It’s only a matter of time before you will be reigned in like the rest of us, though I know not how Father hopes to achieve that with someone of your reputation.”

“I’m sure whatever problems a highborn fancies himself to have are nothing of significance to what men further down have to endure,” Venice said quietly, trying to keep her old opinions about rigid hierarchical systems at bay. Garlemald and Ishgard had a lot in common but it was not her place to make deductions about their correlations and distinctions. Her brain hurt at the very thought of doing so, too much time spent around smarter men, her finger twitched for the strings of her lute. “Can we go somewhere warmer to talk?”

\---

“Now that I have all of my children around me once more..” Lord Edmont began, the four of them circled around a small table, waiting to be served.

Emmanellain kept shooting Venice looks of warning, Artoirel simply appeared bored to have his time wasted again. Because the celebrants were technically between holidays, the menu on offer was an experimental one featuring dishes from a new initiative, designed to test out cultural holidays from other regions. Food was the great equaliser, especially in times of peace when trade became the battlefield of choice. Venice encouraged them to give it a try though none were particularly thrilled about the idea of drinking tea the colour of fresh grass.

“I suppose that answers that though I wonder why we’re hosting Doma traditions without first welcoming their leadership to our lands,” Artoirel sighed, giving a sweet rice bun another poke before deciding he actually enjoyed the grainy texture.

“Probably because they aren’t available,” Venice said. “I am curious why I’ve not been asked to be involved, actually.”

“Maybe your significant other is being polite and not mixing business with pleasure,” Emmanellain jabbed, scarfing down the contents of another earthen tea cup.

“We’re not..” she started, Edmont watched her carefully and she dropped the matter right away. _Take your own god damn advice, Emma._

“Who will go with me to see _Shattered Wings_ this year?” Edmont enquired, eyeing them each in turn.

“Do we have to?” Artoirel groaned, fetching a bottle of brandy to wash down the unfamiliar flavours.

“Not again, why do we have to do it every single time,” Emmanellain physically squirmed at the request.

“What’s that?” Venice asked for what felt like the upteenth time that day.

“It’s one of many plays they put on at the Vault, an annual tradition that the would-be participants compete against one another to be a part of. This year’s auditions were open to all classes, well, they always have been in the past but money tended to sway the judges as to which candidates were more supportive of the arts and therefore most deserving of the prestigious opportunity,” Artoirel explained after sipping the amber liquid with all haste, cutting off his father’s attempt to give a more in-depth analysis.

“This one is particularly special,” Edmont continued. “The story is about Saint Shiva’s parents and family, how they coped with her choosing to leave her brethren behind to follow her own heart. Inaccurate now, by most accounts, but it is imperative that we do not cover up the past as our ancestors tried to hide their ill-conceived decisions. There is a strong theme in the play about the pressures of family and how we are all connected, that together we can achieve more than separately.”

“It’s a story for children, meant to make them obedient,” Emmanellain said with exasperation.

“The costumes are ghastly, completely over the top,” Artoirel added.

“The fight scenes are far and few between.”

“The acting is atrocious.”

“That’s because it’s a ballet, you’re supposed to pay attention to the movements.”

“The music is splendid though..”

“Your biased opinions are appreciated, but let Venice decide for herself. The overall presentation is quite lovely and it would mean a lot to those involved to have a captivated audience partaking in the fruits of their labours,” he turned to pat Venice’s hand, “You’d really get a lot out of it and I don’t want to go alone.”

“I’d be happy to attend,” she smiled, her brothers let out their relief by ordering desserts which Venice passed on so that she might not be overstuffed before her dinner with the Grand Companies.

“While we’re in one place making outlandish requests of each other,” Artoirel piped up. Venice groaned, she knew that passively aggressive tone, “I’ve decided to collate opinions for our next family portrait.”

“Oh,” Emmanellain frowned, not meeting his brother’s eye.

“There’s no need to tread lightly, we’ve been through this discussion in the past,” Edmont said quietly. Venice could sense tension then it dawned on her as to why: she would literally become Haurchefant’s replacement in the new painting.

The emotions of the request were varied, she was excited and nervous, her position with the Fortemps’ would be solidified in a very physical manner. Quickly, she flicked from the morbid thoughts to wondering what sort of gaudy dress she’d have to put on for the long sessions. No point in addressing the controversial nature of the subject if she didn’t have to.

“Would you be able to set time aside to do the preliminary sketches?” Artoirel asked her.

“If that’s what you want,” she forced a smile, he wasn’t interested in hearing her opinion so much as extending a formality. 

“Well then, with our business concluded for the day, I think it is time to escort Father home. Best to do it before the temperature drops even further, we’re due for more blizzards in the coming bells,” Emmanellain made his move and Lord Edmont made his farewells.

“You’re not going with them?” Venice asked of her older brother.

“It occurs to me that we’ve spent little time together since your return.”

_So we are to entertain each other with small talk then, my favourite pastime. Might as well get used to it, seeing as I’ve voluntarily offered myself up as escort for tonight’s diplomatic adventure._

“What’s on your mind?”

“Far too many things, dear sister.”

“How fares your courtship with Ser Lucia?”

“Honestly?” he looked down at his dwindling drink for answers. “Do you want another round?”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t,” she paused. The temptation was fierce, but she had to make inroads against a loss of control. While others sought her advice and assurance, she could not afford to weaken her own state of mind. The feeling was not altogether different to what her beloved endured every day, staying above the desire to give into personal freedoms.

“We’re in a bit of a holding pattern at the moment,” he said, leaning back, swirling the contents of his goblet around, eventually deciding he had also had enough. “The Inquisition has been pressing in close, if I were anyone else it wouldn’t even matter. Until this mood settles about the Garleans being in collusion with our leaders, I can’t take the risk of associating our name with the scandal. Not that I had high hopes to begin with, the deck is already stacked heavily against an outsider and a highborn, nevermind the longterm implications..”

“Plenty of Hyur and Elezen couples out there, you’d hardly be the first.”

“Yes, but as the eldest heir of our house, there are other things to consider. Such as, making sure the next heir is born,” he sighed heavily. “In the unlikely scenario that things did turn serious between us, we would need to start soon. While we are roughly the same age, you might forget at times that Elezen have longer life spans.”

“I’m sure as someone destined to ascend to the highest rank, Lucia would find living to old age a bit of a disappointment.”

“Aye, and that’s another problem, I can’t very well ask her to sacrifice what she is good at for the sake of domestication. Anyway, all of this is quite hypothetical, we weren’t to the point of holding hands much less discussing the entirety of our potential future together.”

“Is it what you want brother? What can I do to help?”

“There is an urgency in the air, Venice. Since the war is over, loved ones are starting fresh. Our city will be full of children in the next couple of summers, I should be contributing to that surge of renewal. Maybe in multiple ways, which is something you _can_ help with. No, not like that, I have a mission in mind which I’ll relay when I have more information.

But I digress, I shouldn’t be focused on casual dalliances right now. There is too much else to do. I barely have time to breathe as it is, neither does Ser Lucia for that matter. Whatever timidness Lord Aymeric had before the archbishop’s death is long gone, our agenda for change is as relentless as the Fury.

You either keep pace or you get left behind and the pair of them are currently engaged in a torrid competition of who can do the greater good, as if they weren’t already doing too much. Success or failure, he is always prepared to give another newborn idea the opportunity to reach adolescence, there is no pausing to consider the long game any more.”

“To break momentum would be more disastrous than not,” Venice said thoughtfully. Her brother spoke of politics, her mind was on something altogether different.

“Be careful, Venice. I worry about his emboldened approach as of late, it could trickle down to other matters as well. He is a man who cannot stop once he begins..”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you listening to any of this?”

“Something about reaching a happy ending by plowing ahead with rigid, single-minded perseverance?”

“You are impossible sometimes.”

\---

The dinner was not an extravagant event, much to Venice’s relief. She did not attend as a member of the Immortal Flames or even to represent the Scions, instead she had been asked to unofficially take Lucia’s place. The ongoing tension between the lord commander and his second was to be downplayed to avoid stirring up their various enemies, as well as to show that unity was still a viable virtue to their friends and allies. Additionally, all of the Grand Company leadership in attendance were already well acquainted with Venice for one deed or another so it seemed like a natural fit for her to be present.

In keeping with the homely feel of the occasion, she did not dress up in furs or elaborate skirts, even her jewelry was kept to a modest level. Venice wore a flowing, ruffled shirt with striped pants that splayed out at the bottoms like a pair of upturned flower vases, so that when her legs were together they gave the illusion of being bound by a snug dress. The flatbottom shoes were reminiscent of those favoured in the East, plain but comfortable.

She spent most of the night close to Aymeric, her arm in his and he showing her off to all that stopped to garner his attention. When the conversations died down, he made a point to assess her mood, wary of her opinion about formal banquets given her past encounters with powerful forces that wanted to manipulate her for their own ends. The irony was that he was using her in not so different of a fashion, but she knew deep down he was genuine about his affections.

What worried her more was how much energy he was spending on faking his happiness, only days before had he been bedridden with distress. It was no surprise that any politician could control the facade they wanted to portray, an essential tool in their arsenal to play their game of choice. But he had been hiding for much of his life and she had thought, naively, that she was immune to his tactics. She kept a close eye on him, waiting for the cracks to grow or shrink, knowing from her own recent bouts with mental trauma that it was not a question of if a break would occur, but when.

When she had first came back to Ishgard, his confidence had buoyed her, but she could not figure out where it had gone since that time. Had he expended all of his positivity on her instead of saving some for himself? If he pretended to be someone else for long enough, would he forget who he was supposed to be or would he embark on a self-fulfilling prophecy, one where he got the girl and lived happily ever after.

At what point would she discover what she wanted, or, more accurately, how to express it so it would not be misconstrued as a temporary application of care. She was selfishly flustered by her own inaction. He was hurting but to alleviate the current pressure would cause longterm consequences. To do nothing would only cause another type of downward spiral. The more he suffered, the more she did in turn. What a useless White Mage was she turning out to be.

For the present, she was content to follow along, letting him choose what he wanted. Until he asked for assistance, she could do nothing else. Whether he was pretending or not, his smile was infectious that evening and she could not resist being the source of his adoration. The bounce in his step, the extravagant flattery he doted upon her, it was easy to forget anything was amiss.

Somehow or another they wound up in the garrison’s main office. Not much about the airy, obnoxiously dusty, interior had changed since it had been graced by Haurchefant’s good humour. The war table was heavily covered in notes and tokens denoting various forces: dragons, knights, keeps, and more than a handful airships. The desk and the empty chair behind it were as they had always been, the only exception was the bemused portrait of Haurchefant, highly detailed and drawing the viewer’s eyes to his impish grin and bright, benevolent eyes. Venice found the facial expression soothing, bracing herself for the punchline of a hearty joke that would never arrive. Almost as real as the man himself. Almost.

Aymeric’s pose went frigid, he was as motionless as a block of ice, looking straight into those beautiful, dark blue eyes, the fake happiness gone like a snuffed out candle. A chill ran up Venice’s spine as she watched him, his expression was familiar and frightening, he could not have looked more like Thordan than in that moment, a forlorn, distant gaze that spoke of menacing thoughts running through his pretty head. She wanted to jump out of her skin, what all-consuming madness was eating away at the core within him that she could not reach?

“Haurchefant used to be the one I revealed everything to. Look how I repaid his kindness,” his tone was lower than a whisper, gravelly and ancient.

She broke the strange spell and reached for his arm, he nearly jumped in fright as the guilt-fuelled trance fled to parts unknown, “You’re carrying so much weight, you always have, it’s crushing you. When you are ready to collapse, I’ll be here.”

“How can you tell?” a meek response, like he had been caught doing something untoward.

He watched her cautiously, waiting to be punished for yet another crime he had not been responsible for, ready to make more amends. The strike he was anticipating did not land.

“What kind of healer would I be if I did not recognise a man in pain,” her voice soft, pleasant like a gentle stream trickling over loose pebbles. “You are not Haurchefant’s keeper. You are the saviour of Ishgard.”

“I’m just a man making it up as I go along.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I don’t want to fool you,” he turned to hug her close, long fingers messing up her carefully pleated hair as she embraced him back. Sharp breaths but no tears followed. “I was never meant to get this far, my reach has surpassed my grasp.”

“Without the Blessing of Light, I am no one special. I am just as mortal and fallible as you are. So let us not get hung up on what others think of us or our motivations,” the advice sounded oddly paradoxal, she tried to recall what he had said to her in the lounge room of his manor when she had been confused about her own place in the world. “If I were to falter, you would be the one to catch me.”

“Anyone would do the same; why does it have to be me?”

“Because.. I don’t know. Well, I do know but there are no adequate words to describe it. We’ve both come to the conclusion that we are kindred spirits, quietly to ourselves. Mayhaps in time the words will come to us, maybe they won’t. Some things are felt rather than known.

And I know _these_ words don’t satisfy you..”

“On the contrary, I daresay now I am the one falling.”

There was no denying it then, he knew just as well as her what sort of adversary he would face.

“Stand against the darkness with your spear of light and should you need a shield, I will provide it.”

They stayed there for hours, rocking back and forth to an invisible tune only their hearts could hear. He preparing for battle, she preparing to mend him when he came back. Grief connecting them together, threatening to tear them apart.

\---

It took three maidservants and a very flustered Honoriot to help Venice into the constricting ballgown that she had reluctantly selected to wear for the upcoming portrait. The colour and fabric were her choice, any rate. The style, a heavy, traditional Ishgardian design layered in hefty petticoats of varying lengths and material, along with an old fashioned corset around the waist, had been decided upon by the artist himself. No amount of dissuasion from the men of the household had changed his mind, least of all Venice’s own opinion of the matter.

She didn’t like making others labour to dress her up, having servants for anything felt inherently wrong. Honoriot tried to placate her by pointing out there was no way she was getting the hoops of that skirt lined up without assistance then immediately tried his best not to catch sight of anything lewd. To amuse herself during the gruelling process, she would lure him with false promises that she was done, his cheeks swelling with embarrassment each time he fell for it. Innocent teasing aside, the only other part she enjoyed was the process of matching her makeup and hair to the final result.

The maidservants left, tired and put out by the whole ordeal, leaving the pair alone so that she could apologise for making the young manservant feel so uncomfortable. He agreed to her compromise: an escort down the grand staircase with her entwined within his thin arm, a presentation for the rest of the household to gawk at and admire. They were both blushing at the large blue eyes which greeted them down in the foyer.

Venice testing the sturdiness of her high heel pumps, wondering how much of the stockings were exposed with each step, hoped it wasn’t too out of character. An opulent dress for a special occasion was one thing but she didn’t want it to become a habit. She didn’t want to make her father or brothers feel as uncomfortable as Honoriot had been. The way they lit up at the sight of her filled her with pride, they did not see a sensual woman as much as a cherished member of their abode.

They reached the final step where Honoriot proceeded to bow in a formal curtsey with Venice doing the same in her typical awkward fashion. The skirts were as heavy as wearing full chainmail, tugging down at her waist, threatening to upset her balance with every movement. The young Elezen caught her and managed to hold her upright with a dignified gesture, the small crowd applauding them as if it were an act.

_This is what fucking fairy tales are made of._

“Thanks for everything, Honoriot,” she tried bowing with just her head which might have worked better if she weren’t laced in so tight.

“It is my greatest pleasure Lady Venice!” he grinned like a child let loose in a sweet store, no longer red in the cheeks.

The dress itself had stolen the show, a black cherry shimmery fabric pooled around her battle hardened curves, a tiny amount of unavoidable cleavage was wrapped around by a lacey neckpiece. A shawl of polar bear fleece sat around her shoulders, pinned together by a sizeable silver unicorn brooch. She had gone with subtle larimar studs for earrings, wearing her hair to the side in a half-braid with a couple of white lilies tucked in, so that the necklace was the only piece of jewelry to capture the observer.

Honoroit had been asked to offer it to her as a token of affection from Lord Edmont, who was to be her companion for the evening. The dress was being trialled on their outing to the play she had agreed to see, an opportunity to see how she’d fare. But the former count couldn’t leave the sentimentality of the moment out. The simple pearl necklace had belonged to Haurchefant’s mother, he had sworn to pass it on as an engagement present to his first daughter-in-law but could not have foreseen he’d acquire an actual ward, a lady he felt had every right to bear the heirloom.

“You are exquisite, my daughter,” Edmont praised her.

“I am at a loss for words,” Artoirel said.

“That’s a good thing,” Emmanellain clarified.

“Am I not the epitome of ostentatious?” she didn’t want to sound like she was milking for compliments but it was hard not to come across as such.

“A practical woman would wear that dress more than once, I see no reason for complaint. Now, shall we be off for our leisurely stroll?”

Lord Edmont and Honoriot traded places so that Venice could hold onto his good arm, though truthfully she made it easier for him to lean against her. They ambled at a sluggish pace beneath the foreboding Architects, for which she was grateful. None of the statuary in Ishgard looked particularly happy, no wonder her people struggled to shake off the bindings of the past. None were innocent, none were guilty.

Whatever anxiety she had about committing crimes against fashion were dispelled when she saw the gaudier garments worn by her fellow nobles. If Artoirel’s opinions about the costume designs were correct, then the ballerinas would have plenty of competition. Even the lowborn had gone out of their way, dressing up with their finest, typically reserved for mass or weddings. She had to wonder about their priorities: looking good or doing good?

They passed the time in the small outside queue with chatter, the subject Emmanellain had been adamant she avoid coming up nearly instantly.

“Lord Aymeric has not spoken about his past?” Edmont asked tentatively.

“Nay, he buries it like it were a cursed treasure hoard, forgotten and unwanted,” Venice confirmed.

“I don’t blame him. Not one of us would emerge from those tales in a good light. Save for Haurchefant.”

“Not even you?”

“Nay, not even I. Lord Aymeric is a saint walking amongst sinners. It is a wonder he can stand each day with his head held high, I know not where he finds the fortitude. Perhaps it is the Fury walking alongside him, perhaps it is you.”

“As a collector of stories, I’m sure you could share one or two..”

“It is not my place, dear daughter. But I can tell you that his relationship with Haurchefant was very close. My son lavished him like a stray puppy, a comparison I find difficult to unsee now. Loyal to a fault, boundless energy, eager to please, always there when you needed him.

They did everything together: playing, eating, sleeping. Behaviour which I, disappointingly, discouraged for I knew the truth about his father and rather than offer compassion, I gave into fear. My reluctance only strengthened Haurchefant’s determination to see justice done, Fury bless him, for he was the best of us.

We look to our fathers for guidance, Venice, but sometimes they show us what not to do.”

His words had stricken a chord but before she could react to them, she caught sight of his old rival from House Durendaire, on approach to gloat about one thing or another, “Don’t look now, Father, but it seems trouble is inbound.”

He didn’t look, not at the count but at her, the sly way Elezen did side-on when they were uncertain of what to do, stroking his goatee for the right words with his free hand.

_Fuck. I called him Father outloud, didn’t even realise it.._

The poignant moment was shattered like ice on the wind.

“Ah, how wonderful it is to see a lord and lady of House Fortemps together again,” the count boomed, Venice could not discern if it was meant to sound flattering or not. “My, doesn’t she look absolutely ravishing in that ensemble. You must be proud. Not only to have acquired a new ward but one that is so pleasing to behold, lucky she is of courtship age. I’m sure you’re already eager to see the suitors make their bids.”

“Actually-” Edmont was immediately cut off by Venice’s big mouth.

“What makes you think I am available for courting?” she asked, immensely offended by the presumption.

“Oh? I was unaware that Lord Aymeric had made a proposition. Why, I bet Count Artoirel is beside himself with dismay at the impropriety of the request. It would not do for the knowledge to spread that a lowborn should outreach his position, regardless of his illustrious accomplishments. There is an order to such things.”

“You’re the one who convinced him to become Lord Speaker, are you not? I wonder, did you have Ishgard’s best interests heart or your own?” Venice shifted the conversation around to one of her choosing.

“The former, of course. It was a bold decision but the right one for all involved, I am glad that he saw the reason behind my arguments, as most reasonable men do. Now, if you don’t mind, I must attend to my own family now. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Slippery bastard,” Edmont said under his breath. “The game is over and yet he continues to watch the board.”

“Filthy cunt more like it,” she spat out.

The count of House Durendaire had dangled the lure of responsibility before Aymeric’s eyes, knowing he would not resist the calling to serve, knowing he would be strained from the very start by an impossible task. Perhaps Edmont had been right, many in Ishgard had taken advantage of his kind soul. While he descended into depths unknown, they reached for the light. She dug her nails into her palms, did nobody see him down on his knees.

“A lady should not use such words,” Edmont scolded her.

“You’re not going to lecture me about etiquette again, are you?”

“Maybe another night, for now we should take our seats and try to put this minor blemish out of mind.”

The play itself brought new frustrations for her to ponder. A gauntlet of misinterpretations aside, the story was more focused on those Shiva left behind than on the woman herself. In the midst of the first war with the dragons, the Elezen woman who fell in love with Hraesvelgr was the only beacon of hope for either side. But her running away to join the enemy had left a sour taste in the mouths of her kith and kin.

The tale centred on a jealous knight whom thought he was entitled to marry Shiva. After he was wounded in battle, she spurned him on the pretense of convincing the dragons to spare his life. Instead of coming back to check on him, she stayed with the wyverns. Her family and the knight continued to battle for their right to live on the fertile lands of Coerthas, covered in fragrant wildflowers, drowning in hopeful dreams. But the dragons showed no quarter, no willingness to share a promise land that was big enough for everybody.

The story ended on a bittersweet note once all of the aggrieved parties realised that Shiva and Hraesvelgr had joined together, laying down their arms of conflict to follow her example. The part about her willingly sacrificing herself to her beloved was conveniently glossed over, it was assumed she had merely chosen to disappear forever, without so much as saying goodbye. There was a funeral service for the misguided maiden, a vigil held in her honour, an entire nation outpouring their pain at their great loss.

The final scene was of the knight laying flowers at the gravestone, lamenting that he could not be the man she needed him to be, thinking himself doomed to an eternity alone but instead being embraced by Shiva’s loving family who had done absolutely nothing wrong and deserved to have a more obedient child. Venice rolled her eyes in the dark; people were not property, nobody was entitled to anything.

She wondered if anyone would write a new play about what actually happened, a far more stirring tale in her mind. Perhaps she would be the one to do it, a musical, an ode to Ysayle and all she held dear. The thought distracted her for the rest of the night which was for the best, she didn’t wish to hear more about how a noblewoman was meant to portray herself to a world that would not respect a woman unless she was a countess. That night she dreamt of a female knight working to not save a man from a dragon but to talk of peace and love with his former enemy, together they flew on their beastial allies to save their nation, neither being sacrificed for the harmonious cause.

\---

Several days later, Venice found herself in the Brume, escorting her older brother on one of his new bids to acquire support from the House of Commons.

“Did you hear that?” Artoirel stopped suddenly.

“Hear what?” Venice looked up at his worried face.

“It’s.. repetitive, like music or prayer. Mayhaps chanting? We’re nowhere near a chapel, how strange..”

“We’re almost to the meeting point, we should stay focused,” Venice said, surprised at her own practicality. Ordinarly, she’d find the alluring distraction of investigating the unknown much more worthy of her talents. When had thinking ahead become normal?

The meeting was excessively boring, almost painfully dry. Even Artoirel found it hard to stay awake during the dull, technical discussions about semantics and theoretical assigning of who should do what. Afterwards, he pointed out they had been bold for taking the first steps on a new path. He was in middle of promising to make it up to his sister when he stopped again.

“That sound again?” she watched his long ears, waiting for them to twitch.

“The opposite. Pure silence. Venice, I know this sound queer but I am ill at ease now,” he turned, holding his chin in his hands. The street traffic was non-existent, as was the presence of any guards. It was the middle of the day, surely even the residents of the lower levels had errands to run or jobs to get to.

“Doesn’t sound strange to me though I do wish I could have heard what you heard,” she looked around, the air was cool but not wholly uncomfortable.

Sunlight could not reach the narrow streets so nothing odd about the temperature. Not a single passerby, not one beggar looking to take advantage of a well-dressed man and his inconspicuous bodyguard. If it had been chanting, she might have picked up traces of the words through the Echo. “Did you make out any particular words, what direction did it come from?”

“None, though the lack of the Fury’s name led me to believe it was more song than anything else. I think it was coming from that side street, faintly,” he pointed, scaffold-covered buildings pressed in close, obscuring the path that faded between them.

“We could take a casual lookabout,” Venice licked her lips, the way Cyr once did when he was on the cusp of detecting heretical activity, “I want to be sure you’re safe,” she quickly justified to the young count. Strange feelings had often led to premonitions of conflict in her experience. He nodded though he wasn’t keen to go too far off the marked roads. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say we’re lost, which is partially correct.”

“Venice, we’re not. Are we?” he got especially pale, turning to inspect every little object brushed side by the pressing winds, eyeing every blind corner with suspicion.

“Um,” she pulled out a handheld compass from her pouch, “We’re still in Ishgard?”

“That’s not remotely funny.”

_Tough crowd._

They found themselves among a rundown section of what could have been piecemeal housing units, or as Artoirel assumed aloud: a dump for leftover broken machinery used to produce siegecraft. Venice had to remind him that not everyone could afford a roof over their head. The stark realisation of seeing firsthand how the lowborn lived their lives threatened to harden his resolve to see his comlex housing scheme reach complete fruition. As they continued, he began formulating ideas of expansion, to create more livable spaces beyond the capitol’s stifling walls.

A yappy puppy broke the somber confrontation. They followed it a short distance towards a young midlander boy who was offering it pats and scraps from their meager excuse for afternoon tea. Artoirel tried to hail the child for information and to perhaps offer him coin for the trouble but a busty Elezen woman wearing a bell-shaped dress came out hurriedly to scoop the boy up, brandishing the intrepid nobleman away.

Venice surmised the boy was an orphan and the woman was likely a maiden of the night, given how much skin she bore, but at least he had someone watching over him. Artoirel, on the other hand, was confused as to why anyone would dismiss him as a potential troublemaker, he was the count of one of the four High Houses and had never been treated as any less.

“What did I say?” he wiped at his brow with an embroidered handkerchief, pushing dust and debris out of his long locks. Venice’s fur-lined, white coat was turning a tinge of murky grey, a result of being amid unusual particles of muck that collected on the cumbersome, uneven streets.

“Nothing, they can tell you don’t belong here,” she shrugged, pulling off her rose-coloured spectacles to blow hot air on the lenses then decided they were too useless without a proper soap and water scrub down. Her staff remained steadily on her back though she had to force the desire to wield it away. Artoirel was doing a fine job of making them look hostile without the extra help.

“How can anyone live in this squalor, there are no markets and what insulation these homes have must be appalling. Do they not freeze to death?”

“Some do,” she said honestly. The two greatest killers of Ishgardians were exposure to the icy elements or succumbing to the untempered flames of dragon breath, neither an appealing send off.

“Maybe we should head back and alert the guards of our suspicions.”

“What guards, the ones in the shining Pillars that will conveniently forget? No, if something is going on, we must uncover it for ourselves. I won’t let something large grow out of minute negligence, the Temple Knights are strapped enough as it is. Aymeric especially so..”

“We’re not really equipped for this, can’t you find another way to impress your heart’s desire?” He groaned abrasively.

She wasn’t listening, too eager to take off after a pack of muts on the hunt. When he found her again, she was outside the eery shambles of a burnt out building, a leftover scar from the riots that had led up to the climax of the war.

“Dogs ran off as soon as they saw this place, must be a reason. Well, other than the coeurl that caught their attention, swear I’ve seen it before..” Venice was crouched down, inspecting the muddy ground for any footprints.

“Sounds like reason enough to turn back-” Artoirel began.

“Come on, Wallflower. Don’t you need leverage with the common folk? If you solver their problems, they’ll be more inclined to give your proposals another pass. And isn’t this more exciting than staying inside all day?”

“I don’t crave excitement, wait, _Wallflower_?”

She ducked under the rotting wooden planks and ventured further into a string of shanty buildings held together by pipes and cobbled pieces of various, deteriorating materials.

“Hm, I was expecting it to be a single structure,” she said, pausing to help her brother through the narrow causeways.

“Nobody has been here in awhile.”

“I mean, it’s not stable but with the right know-how somebody could turn this into a useful hideout. From the outside, it gives the impression of being less held-together than it actually is,” she poked at one of the drier beams holding up the second floor, “So the question is, why haven’t they?”

“Given the hounds’ reluctance, I daresay death hangs over this place, or something equally unpleasant.”

They pushed on, Venice using her magic to dispel any haunting spirits, not that she believed there were any but Artoirel kept reaching for the holy symbol around his neck, just in case. One narrow passage opened up into an abandoned sitting room, the seats arranged in a semicircle fashion like an amphitheatre. Bits of grass and flowers grew between the cracks, nature finding its way into the heart of the floating city of stone.

“Almost beautiful,” Artoirel gasped, water dripped onto his shoulder causing him to curse the premature assessment, “Can we go _now_?”

“There’s a flickering flame down one of these stretches, I keep seeing a jittery shadow out of the corner of my eye,” Venice said, her voice hushed. She held out her staff and motioned for him to stay close behind while she picked her way across the the odd room to find whatever lay beyond.

“Did you actually live like this, back in Garlemald?” he asked in an effort to distract his nerves.

“This building would have seemed positively luxurious compared to where I used to stay,” she answered. A skittering noise made them both yelp, several small rats ran along the beams right above their heads.

“I can’t imagine, I’m sorry,” he shuddered, brushing off his fear then delicately placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t need your pity,” she said out of habit. “My bandmates used to stay in the backrooms of wherever we were playing, for as long as we could get away with. Otherwise, we took to stealing tarps used to protect magitek mechs from poor weather conditions, there were plenty of garrisons around and none missed the useful material, they’d rather make new weapons than maintain or repair old ones. Everyone had a job to do.

Anyway, the fabric was thin enough to be rolled up and moved about, sometimes we made tents or simply wrapped it around. Wherever we could make a small campfire became our home for the night. Then we’d get what rest we could between practice, saving our energy for the next show.

We looked out for each other, kind of like a family but we never had money so we were always moving, alluding the authorities, writing and singing..”

“Venice, I’ve seen you eyeing my violin numerous times. Would you like to play together sometime? We could try out some harmonies or perform whatever you wish,” his voice was soft. Instead of being full of pity, it was full of warmth, he wasn’t trying to bribe or use her for his own ends, there was genuine care behind that upper class accent.

While she had treated her bandmates in kind, they had not always been so interested in her personal welfare, she had used the term family because she could think of no other way to describe their loose connection. They each had their part, the band couldn’t work if one member wasn’t pulling their weight. House Fortemps didn’t need her, they wanted her in their lives even though she had taken one of their own. They should have turned their backs that day she relayed the news but they had not. That’s not how the people of Ishgard treated family. 

“I’d.. really love that, Wallflower.”  
Briefly, she had forgotten the potential danger they were wandering into, feeling as if she were back in the foyer at the manor. Another room beckoned, the candles were numerous and glowing red hot, a choking incense strangled their senses.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Artoirel said after a cursory glance of the interior. For once, it was not a complaint and Venice was finding it hard to disagree.

“No shit,” she said, swallowing hard, taking stock of their unsavoury surrounds.

Her immediate impression was of waltzing into the necromantic den of the Tam-Tara Deepcroft, dripping candles filling every nook and cranny, tattered rugs and tapestries strewn about with little care for the potential fire dangers, an acrid smoke that hung over everything. On one large table, was an assortment of pamphlets covered in volatile rhetoric displayed in large, clear letters meant to incite the masses. Iconography associated with ritualistic behaviour covered every square ilm.

Whoever had been there had left not long before their arrival, the room was surrounded by strange objects of worship, thick tomes littered the tables and shelves. If there were any chairs, they remained out of sight, standing room only. The smoke began to dissipate, slowly revealing every wicked detail and though the lit candles adorned every surface, the light was too dim to reach the room’s centre. Something profane had occured in that space or was about to.

Reds and blacks, death and retribution, sin and sacrifice. She could not tell how the symbolism had crept through the haze but there was no denying the chill against her spine, the urge to flee while also feeling rooted in place. Plumes of vapour marked her breathing, candles going out one-by-one. Artoirel was a statue, staring at her with blue eyes full of fear, the Halonic symbol back in his hands. She swore he was mouthing “Told you so”. What madness had she dragged him into.

A staircase led the cellar, surely nothing but chains, cages, and other terrifying elements of torture would greet them in its depths.

“Where are you going? There could be someone down there.”

“Then I’ll whack them over the head with my staff,” Venice said coolly. “It’s not like there’s room for a sleeping dragon.”

“What if-”

“Don’t.” She took a breath then began the descent, Artoirel hanging onto her sleeve as she got close enough to see nothing but an impenetrable darkness. Once more, the glow from her relic weapon was not sufficient, silently she swore it hadn’t been worth the effort to make. “Fetch a candle would you, shouldn’t be hard to find a usable wick.”

He wanted to protest but he didn’t want to go down into the lower level so he chose the lesser of two evils. The upper room had been unsettling enough, its likely purpose was as a gathering point where the insane fanatics organised to plot out their devious plans. The lower was arranged as a church, chairs lined together like pews, a dais at one end behind an imposing lectern. It was less anger and bile, more secretive and sinister in tone.

There was a small desk in one corner, hidden behind a tapestry adorned in primitive designs. Assorted implements and flasks in metal stands hung over the sparsely furnished side-room, some sort of lab for alchemy perhaps, though the tools were akin to miniature chisels and picks. Whoever had used the materials was not a clean hand, various liquids and their precipitates were carelessly arranged, seemingly without any regard for the results.

Venice rifled through the drawers that were open, hoping for a logbook or some type of outline as to what was being cooked up. The foul smell one expected from experiments was not present, she couldn’t tell what catalysts they would have used, one less lead to chase up.

Artoirel returned with a candleholder paired with a grim expression, “There is not one Halonic depiction in this place,” he pointed out while holding the light aloft to assist his sister’s continued search.

“I’ve noticed that. Definitely heretics, possibly cultists,” she found a plain skeleton key at the bottom of a junk drawer.

“What are those books?”

“Amateur descriptions about how to prepare and examine samples. These guys have no idea what they are doing but they sure know how to give off a spooky vibe that would dissuade anyone else from figuring that out.”

“Samples?”

“Minerals, mostly. Basic stuff that any alchemist would learn in the first few days of joining the guild. What else did you come across upstairs?”

“Angry letters and associated paraphernalia against the current government. I’ve seen plenty of opposing views since we began this journey, but these ones are particularly hostile, concise, and very convincing. Worryingly so.”

“So they’re planning to rile people up to impose whatever they believe in. How did cultists get inside the Brume? Maybe they are home grown, that’ll cause the Inquisition to shit coeurls for sure.”

Artoirel placed the candle down, satisfied that they weren’t about to be jumped by strange men intent on slitting their throats. He took to scouring the rest of the lower level, finding further research materials in the form of religious texts.

“They might not be interested in the Fury directly but they have a thirst to find hidden truths within the faith.”

“Just not, you know, the _actual_ truth that there was nothing special about the twelve knights and how horrible everybody was to the dragons,” Venice rolled her eyes, some people would claim the sky wasn’t blue. “Oh, that’s a large crystal fragment,” she interrupted him from spouting a retort.

“Very light in colour. Does that mean it has been recently dug up?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, but hang onto that thought,” she tried the key against a couple of trunks lining the rest of the room. Nothing. “Objects infused with belief and an aether crystal, in a place frequented by crazy arse nutjobs. No big deal.”

“I really hate having to keep bringing this up but can we leave..”

“Sorry, brother. I need to allay my suspicions now.”

“There’s another large book laying open by the altar, if indeed that is what it is supposed to be. Very ornate, worth more than anything else around here,” he wandered over to gaze upon the oddly beautiful object, the candlelight reflecting off its gold emblazoned binding in blinding bursts. He tentatively tried to turn the thick pages by the edge rather than smear fingerprints across the ancient words. “I don’t recognise this script, the flowery shapes indicate its incredibly old, a revered book in its time.”

“Definitely old, my Echo can’t translate that,” Venice agreed. “Is that the Enchiridion?”

“Aye, a bit beat-up in comparison. These page markings..they all connect to passages about the origin of our faith, the story every child knows by heart. Why would the cultists be so fascinated?”

“Well, they don’t seem to like the church’s new direction. Maybe they were more interested in the institution itself rather than its teachings?”

“The vast majority of the above room is red and not in a way that makes one think of passion,” Artoirel echoed her preliminary observations, “They had lots of notes tucked away about the integrity of bloodlines, pedigrees, the history of important figures and how they interconnect. Do you think they could be necromancers? There was an illustration of a vessel communing with another figure..”

“Wait, let me see that.”

He handed her a hand drawn sketch showing the details of one of the faded tapestries, crudely reconstructed but with its intended meaning clear as a summer’s day. Several more leaflets were discovered among some folded linen, the artist hiding them away like a child trying to make sense of a complex concept without revealing their incompetence. Venice didn’t like jumping to conclusions but the pictographs were eerily prophetic: a vessel convening with a higher power, a box with a man inside, two objects that looked like the Eyes, a circle with twelve figures along its edge.

Her stomach churned; the creeping sensation continued to grow and swell, like a tree encased in a well reaching to break through the stones. Pieces of rock pushed away at the surface, clues that would determine why the sapling had been planted where it had in the first place. None of them matched up neatly, she needed to find the remaining stones, place them around and then finish the image, hopefully of a solid lid that would grant the specimen a quiet end.

She stood upon the dias in her half-boots, tapping for any hollowed hideaways. Again, she felt lied to by every mystery she had ever read. Nobody used misdirection quite so astutely in the real world. A cabinet behind some curtains looked more enticing. She fitted the key and was met with a click of joy.

“Finally,” she said with short-lived relief. Within were more crystals of various sizes and colour. Another stone turned over: the alchemy lab was designed to test for potency. The amount of crystals was considerable but it was paltry compared to what the beastkin used to call forth their gods, small comfort that was going to be. The most dominant aspect was ice, not surprising given their closeness to Coerthas but she would have to make note of it for most ice-crystals had been moved to Anyx Trine. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say these cultists were trying to commence a summoning.”

“Which primal were they going to call?” Artoirel was still looking through the drawings, barely registering what she had said.

“Hm, the beastkin usually have small objects showing their god’s image, carved into totems or what have you. Nothing around here seems so concrete. But then, I’ve never seen the races of man try to do it either, except for Ysayle. On that point, no dragon symbols around here..”

“They’re keen on the church’s oldest secrets. Can an actual goddess be summoned instead of a false god?”

“I don’t think so? They’re not fixated on the Fury Herself, so..” Her heel caught on the corner of a shabby circle of carpet, she leaned down to examine the rug. She already knew what she’d find beneath and still the chalk outline contrasting sharply against the black stone startled her.

“Gods’ fucking damn it,” she swore heavily. “Ignorant cunts. Foolish dickbags.”

“What is it?” Artoirel was more surprised by her inclination for profanity than what she had discovered.

“This symbol. This is was the same image that the Heavens’ Ward created in the reactor when Thordan cast his Ultimate.”

“You’re suggesting..?”

“This _is_ a summoning site and the primal they want to summon is Thordan.”

“Lord Aymeric..”

“Needs to know. I am already going-”

“Venice wait!” Artoirel chased her up the stairs, back out to the shambling complex away from the overwhelming details. He had the strange book wrapped under his arms, “You were supposed to protect me today, we should go together. Who knows where these cultists currently lurk, they may have seen us ferreting out their secrets.”

She was pacing hard, thinking of what to say. Trying to keep her temper under control, of all the primals why did it have to be that one.

“I know, you’re right. But we should split up to confuse them.”

“That hardly sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ll stay with you until we reach the main street, then we’ll have to come up with a plan. I don’t know much danger he is in right now but I won’t take any chances.”

“I understand, while we currently have a difference of opinion, I do not wish him any ill will. And this problem would affect us all if left unchecked.”

When they reached a place they both recognised, Venice put on her Paladin soulcrystal. Artoirel gasped in awe, indicating her House Fortemps kite shield.

“You’ve kept it, then?”

“Of course, was I supposed to throw it in a cupboard somewhere?”

“The sight of that shield brings me immense courage. Here, take the book with you, it’s bound to be useful.”

She held out her arms, impressed by the sheer weight of the volume, then carefully placed it in her bag. Once secured, she began to unhook the scabbard from her belt, handing the covered weapon to her nervous brother in exchange, “Take my sword. Not as good as having me at your side but it will suffice.”

He pulled on the hilt gingerly, his fingers spreading around the turquoise grip, a bright blue light burst out as he began to peek at the unsheathed blade. Another loud gasp, “This is a Heavens’ Ward weapon, Venice. I cannot wield this, men spend their entire lives earning the right.”

“Not any more they don’t. It was a trophy, a momento left behind after I killed the undeserving sons of bitches. Nobody is going to fuck with you as long as you carry it. And if they are brave enough to try, you will cut them down without breaking a sweat. I’ve seen you fight firsthand, you’re a better swordsman than I.”

“If you insist,” he buckled the scabbard to his slim measurements, casually holding onto the silvery pommel, “Be careful with that tome. Not only is it fragile, but it pre-dates the church itself. It might be one of the forbidden Apocrypha. If so, it could mean the Inquisition is at work here or at least not going a good job of protecting our sacred artefacts.”

Venice’s heart was pounding, a cascading torrent of rage plunging into jagged panic. Was it even possible, could Thordan be resummoned? Should the situation escalate out of control, the Scions would have to be brought in. They had never fought a battle of that scale in the centre of a heavily populated city, especially one enjoying its hardwrought peace after a millennia of endless conflict.

“Don’t stall on the way home, be ambiguous in your descriptions to the House guards, we really don’t have enough information yet,” she said hurriedly, hoping she wasn’t leaving out any pertinent instructions.

Her mind scrambled for focus, as it had done after every setback they had faced following Thordan’s demise. Each obstacle threatened to undo their success, leaving them to wonder which crisis would be the final reckoning. She was to alleviate Aymeric’s burdens, not heap upon more. He was not going to take the news very well.

_Fuck you, Thordan, fuck all the pain you continue to sow. I will release him from your talons, Fury as my witness. Even should it be the last feat I accomplish, I will not let you torment this city any more. Over my dead fucking body._

“Are you sure about this?” Artoirel asked reservedly, as if it might be their final parting.

“No, but I’ll work it out. Go, brother, Fury grant you all due haste.”

“May She protect your path as well.”

They set off in separate directions, each looking for an Aetheryte in a section of the city with meandering streets that often led nowhere. Venice was barely watching the way ahead, too concerned about how she’d broach the subject. Maybe a crisis would be a good thing, it would shake him out of his emotional cocoon, forcing him to reassess his priorities and obligations, all of which he would still have too many of no matter what. One step at a time, the summoning was not close to fruition, they didn’t have a source of power like the Eyes at their disposal. Whoever they were.

_Shit, too many unknowns._

“Oh, sorry miss,” someone said mockingly.

Had she stumbled into someone by accident?

“You don’t want to go this way looking like that,” another voice said in an exaggerated voice.

“Too dressed up to stay here,” one more argued.

“Don’t have time for this,” she proclaimed, crouching to catch her breath briefly then trying to side-step the small group. They deliberately barred her path, their arms crossed, youthful eyes jaded and bitter. All were from the Brume, two Elezen boys and a midlander.

“What’s that get-up supposed to be? Surely an outsider doesn’t fancy herself to be a knight.”

“Maybe she’s an acolyte, there’s no chainmail.”

“Heretics don’t go to church, Donni.”

“Maybe we should show her around, this area of town can be rough for a lady on her own.”

“Fuck off you whoreson pieces of shit,” she pushed the first one in the chest, “I’d love to berate you more but now is _not_ a good time.”

“ _Feisty_. Fetch those ropes would you, Percy,” the taller of the Elezen said to the midlander. “They should still work, even with those bite marks from the last blue blood.”

“Hold her down, she’s unarmed,” the other Elezen said pointedly, watching the smaller boy do the dirty work with glistening eyes. 

The lowborns had been granted equality but it hadn’t been enough to remove centuries of hatred, they were not content to be the same. They wanted to be more. They wanted to hurt the ones who had hurt them. Ishgard was both a source of love and frustration for Venice, some days the city broke her heart more than it uplifted her spirit. But there was simply no time to dwell on philosophical shortcomings. If she didn’t stop the summoning in time, even the filthy opportunists would find themselves tempered slaves, right back where they started without a voice to express their disdain. At the very least, she had to make sure they didn’t get to her brother and that meant an engagement was unavoidable. 

“Unarmed? Bitch, please,” she could have come up with a clever ruse to separate the bunch but time was of the essence and her patience was already gone.

The shield pushed grotesquely into the underside of one lad’s chin, a punch met the stomach of another, her stance allowed her to spring back and forth as she had been trained to do. A rough push against her shoulder pinned her to a stone wall, she tripped the other one moving in to grab her exposed side. Cracking bone as her arm was pulled upon, the shield sprawled on the ground out of reach. She grabbed for the sheathed knife on the midlander’s belt, the serrated blade slicing up the arm of the Elezen intent on breaking hers, poetic justice if ever she had seen it. Having drawn first blood, the three boys paused to formulate a new strategy.

Someone joined the fray then, a fourth miscreant hellbent on throwing her to the ground. Not expecting it, she struggled to get back to her knees. The original boys circled around, their eyes large with fright but also shining with the tasteful lust of victory. She tucked her legs and rolled, as she had been shown. The maneuver would have ended with stabbing her blade upwards but as she did not have one, she lunged for the shield again.

The loud clank of steel against steel, another dagger drawn against her, a shortsword by Hyuran standards. Had they been any smarter, they would have had firearms instead of weapons that pit them spittingly close to someone who had slain beasts hundred times their size. The bleeding lad was beginning to screech with pain, the rush of the fight no longer blurring his senses.

Venice brought herself back to her feet, the shield held low, baiting the blade she could not see. Predictably, the resounding echo gave her the opportunity step backwards, dragging the bladesman into her pummeling embrace, the shield bashing in his nose as he slumped past. The sickening implosion of bent flesh and cartilage dissuaded him from trying the trick again, as well as causing his brethren to contemplate the depths of suffering they had embarked upon.

“What kind of recruit _are_ you,” one asked, gobsmacked.

“The kind that killed Nidhogg, want to continue or should I let you retain your dignity long enough to claim it for myself at a later date?”

They looked between each other, all four of them reaching for their respective wounds.

“I’m in a generous mood and Ishgard may be in need of canon fodder soon, get your arses out of my sight,” she bellowed, jerking her shield at the nearest one who promptly led the retreat.

Uninterrupted from that point on, she continued her sprint until she chanced about the welcoming blue light of a miniature Aetheryte, touching it long enough to reach its pair just outside the Congregation. Barrelling through the doors, not stopping to take notice of Ser Handeloup’s urging to slow down, Ser Lucia looking up from the war table with agitation, Venice felt herself nearly ready to blackout as the adrenaline rapidly plummeted.

“Ah, there’s our favourite heretic now,” a pompous, elderly voice declared.

“Charming,” Venice shot back over her shoulder, disregarding the unfamiliar face.

“Lady Venice, what have I told you about coming in here unannounced?” Aymeric was trying his best to appear undeterred by her dramatic entrance. “Are you wounded?” He made to get up right away, throwing protocol aside in favour of his affections, current company suddenly deemed irrelevant.

“Are you hurt, is everything alright?” she asked frantically between short bursts of breath, holding fast to the details in her mind.

“Why wouldn’t I be, what has happened?” he wanted to comfort her but it did not seem prudent with the quarrelsome stranger looking down his hawkish nose.

“This is important, we have a massive problem on our hands,” she leaned against the desk, wearily trying to keep herself upright. She turned around to acknowledge the other gentleman, a silver-haired Elezen with a glowering expression. He wore blue and gold armour similar to Aymeric’s but somehow without the same degree of humility.

“Lord Inquisitor, please forgive this intrusion, we can see to our spirited arguments afterwards.”

“I will humour you this one time,” the inquisitor snapped, unmoved by his counterpart’s soft plea, posturing like a stern, judgemental statue. Venice supposed that was how all inquisitors stood.

“You may be interested to hear this as well,” she said after a pause, refraining from making more of a scene. “I’ll forego the irrelevant details and get straight to it: Artoirel and I stumbled across a summoning site in the Brume less than a bell ago, I came here as soon as it became obvious what we had found.”

Both men were stunned into silence, whatever intense conversation they had been having prior was instantly forgotten. Venice could feel their eyes watching, waiting for more to be said. It occurred to her then that she could not fully divulge everything right in front of the leader of the inquest, a man whose job it was to root out conspiracies and criminal misconduct against the faithful.

Aymeric was already standing close, ready to inspect her bruised shoulder, he needed to know every excruciating detail though it would cause him the greater discomfort. Torn by indecision, she couldn’t very well say her piece with any stranger looking on, regardless of what prestigious rank he held, not when she needed to display consilitary reparations.

“I will not question your expertise in such matters, Warrior of Light, this is of grave concern to us all and I daresay you’ve done the right thing by alerting us. In light of this news, I cannot in good conscience continue these semantic duels. Not while our home is under threat,” the inquisitor broke the ice with a sledgehammer, his voice falling several decibels to a methodical whisper not unlike a priest biting back his disappointment.

“It often takes a crisis to bring us together,” Aymeric lamented with sordid reluctance, “I concur, we will have to postpone our talks for a more suitable time. Right now, it is most important that we investigate and contain the danger before news of it spreads to insight undesirable outcomes.”

“I will deploy my best men into the Brume immediately and see the Fury’s will be done, with your permission,” the older man bowed factitiously with an extra element of flourish meant to needle the lord commander’s resolve, underhandedly challenging him over who would take direction of the operation.

“Please do what you do best, Lord Inquisitor. The Temple Knights remain ready to reinforce your efforts. We are on the same side, as ever we have been. Ishgard’s peace cannot last unless we cooperate, especially during periods of unrest.”

“Perhaps there are some things we can agree upon. Now if you’ll pardon the abruptness, I must carry out the Fury’s judgement against these craven souls.”

“Wait,” Venice implored, defying her usual temperament. “Be wary, my lord. These fanatics may appear to be amateurs but if they progress their ritual far enough, there may come a point when only those with the Echo like myself are capable of diffusing the situation. We may have started on the wrong foot here but let me make it plain: I do not wish to strike against tempered Ishgardians, whether they be inquisitors or not.

That desire aside, a growing army would hinder our ability to get in close to the source, we must handle this situation with caution or it will rapidly spin out of control. I’ve fought plenty of primals before but never have I had to concern myself with so many potential casualties in close proximity. You will keep that possibility to a minimum, won’t you?”

“That is sound advice, Lady Venice, thank you for the candid warning,” the inquisitor gave her a bow as well, a more genuine one, then departed to order his men to canvas the Brume for useful intel.

“He seems nice,” she turned her focus back to Aymeric who was failing to hide his surprise at her diplomatic touch, “Stick up his arse. But nice.”

“Violet, what aren’t you telling me? Your shoulder is slumped, you have a slight limp, and I can see the blood splatter on the back of your boots..”

“Shit, sorry. It’s not mine, I swear. You should see the other guys. Wait, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t kill anyone though it was sorely tempting and nobody would have missed them..”

“Venice..” he tried earnestly to steer her back to the unnerving topic.

“I didn’t catch sight of the cultists, sadly. This was a result of an unrelated entanglement. I’m alright, nothing to worry about. A glass of scotch-whiskey wouldn’t be dismissed.”

“While I am glad to hear that, I know when you’re trying to avoid me,” he rested a hand against her good shoulder which she rubbed her cheek against for a time, collecting her thoughts together.

“Right, so. The summoning ritual,” she pulled away to look him directly in the eyes, “You’re going to want to sit down for this news, trust me.

This cultists, whoever they are, they are not one of the dragon cults I’ve seen in the past. They weren’t trying to summon Shiva. Nor were they quite following the same pattern as the beastkin tribes.

By all the evidence I saw, they were interested in summoning Thordan.”

“As in...King Thordan I?”

“Yes.”

“The one my father summoned?”

“You got it.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I said! More or less,” she stared at him in disbelief.

She did not think it possible for him to appear any sexier and yet right then, he had just given her a new thrill. Had the circumstances been less than apocalyptic, she might have been interested in showing the full extent of her arousal.

“Is it even possible? What else did you see?”

“I don’t know how it _can’t_ be possible, but keep in mind a lot of this is speculation at this stage.”

She placed the recovered tome on the table then, watching his explosive reaction. Whatever the book was, it did not fill him with relief or joy.

“What is that? It looks like it belongs in the forbidden archive at the Tribunal.”

“I’m not sure yet, Artoirel reckons it might be one of the Apocrypha. If it has come from the Tribunal, the Inquisition has a lot to answer for.”

“You removed it from the crime scene then,” he frowned, leaning over to get a better look at the richly embossed cover. “Venice, I’m already on thin ice with the Lord Inquisitor, if he discovers this missing piece of evidence somehow..”

“I’ll handle it, it needs a translation anyway and I thought maybe Cyr would have some ideas on that front. In the meantime, you can act as if you’ve never seen it. I just wanted you to be aware that we’re dealing with stolen objects as well as everything else.”

“Perhaps those Doman thieves stole it and made sure the cultists could get their hands on it? We haven’t figured out if there are more of them or who exactly their benefactors are. Maybe the Garleans are involved again, wouldn’t that be ironic given the current climate,” his sarcasm was thick, a taste of the morbid humour he had developed while fighting for his life against the Horde.

“I’ll follow all of those theories up. Relax, this is my area of expertise. You can keep tabs on the Inquisition, make sure they don’t muck anything up.”

“What was the crystal situation like?”

“Not too many and the more I ponder on that, the more I am inclined to think they were looking for a particular crystal, like the one Ysayle had. They knew the Eyes were used in the original summoning, maybe they want to get their hands on another pair? I’ll ask Estinien about it, might be some leftover poacher business to see to,” she paced around, wishing she could write down all of their observations. He watched her through his folded hands, barely listening to the exchange, mind wandering back to the hidden depths that he would not grant her access to.

“Did you find what was inside that Allagan box?” he said, hoping for a scrap of good news.

“Ah,” she grinned, knowing what was inside but not thinking the moment was remotely appropriate for explaining it. “It’s nothing dangerous. Well, depends how you use it, I guess. One world destroying problem at a time, right?”

“Is there truly no upside to any of this?”

“I’m afraid not,” she planted her hands back on the desk and took another long breath, “And there is one more, _unpleasant_ detail.

When Thordan performed his summoning, he used his own body as a host for the soul of his ancestor. _Your_ ancestor. Similar to what Ysayle did for Saint Shiva, though I know not the full details that allowed either of them to perform these feats. These cultists are trying their damndest to recreate those circumstances and they have a lot of animosity for the changes you’ve made against the church.

You are their ideal choice for a mortal vessel, willing or not. I don’t think they particularly care. I don’t even think they’d be too upset if the ritual itself was unsuccessful but they do mean to try.”

Aymeric leaned back in the highback chair, looking drained of energy and colour, the breaking point could not be far off. What more could he take? The stare he afforded her was the same one from the garrison, straight through as if she were a ghost or not there at all. She wanted to punch through that invisible barrier of indifference, to grab hold of the root of all his ills and rupture it from the clay-like soil, casting it safely away like dandelion seeds on the wind.

“They would literally turn me into my father.”

“No!” she reached across the desk to wrap his hands in her own, like an eagle clutching for a nestling that wasn’t going to stay airborne upon their own wings. He didn’t seem to register it at first, frozen in his grief-stricken state. His brow furrowed behind the messy fringe, she knew that look too well.

Venice continued in a clinical voice, as delicately as she could manage, “That’s not exactly how it works, it would be the same primal but all primals are a projection of belief from those whom summon them. And anyway it’s not going to happen, I won’t let it. I’ll stop this heinous scheme from reaching its conclusion.”

“But if a primal were to be summoned within the city, if the security of Ishgard were on the line, you would be obligated to destroy it, would you not? As a Scion, that is.”

“Yes, but..”

His eyes were half-closed, each hand threatened to break hers as he spoke, “If something should hinder my ability to serve, if I became a threat, could you keep the city safe in my stead?”

“That’s a question for Lucia, that is her responsibility,” she looked down at their hands, his palms had gone sweaty and so had hers. “As far as I am concerned, you _are_ Ishgard and protecting you is my priority. Even if it came down to fighting against the other Scions, I would not hesitate.”

“You would undo all my hardwork for the sake of..” his eyes opened at last, riddled with pain, she glimpsed a lifetime of suffering bubbling to the surface. He searched her face for the answer, as if praying at Halone’s feet. Then it came like a bullet from the most advanced gunblade, tearing through her chest with blistering speed, “Love?”

He was asking her essentially to choose between him or Ishgard. It was an impossible question. She realised that he had been struggling with the same thing; the cause of his recent misery had been whether she deserved his devotion or the city itself. She thought back to the eve of the Battle for Doma Castle, what had seemed like another impossible scenario. Hien had made a bold declaration in the form of a simple phrase: “Walls can be rebuilt,” filling their tiny rebellion with unquenchable hope.

“Yes.” She had never been more confident with her own judgement then right there, holding his hands in hers, watching the silent tears say everything else. “I would find a way to save you, just as we saved Estinien. I promise.”

“I am nothing without Ishgard.”

“You are my spear. You will always have me as your shield, Blue.”

Her hands still clamped around his, she kissed his forehead and remained there until he was ready to pull apart. They had to face each problem as it came. Together or not at all.


End file.
